The Meaning of Need
by Tsuki the Avenger
Summary: Before this year, Heero couldn't really remember a single meal he had eaten... but after a near-fatal mission, he can hardly think of anything else. (1x3, yaoi romance and angst)


**Author's Note:** So, I decided to re-post some of my older fics back to the internet since most of sites they were on no longer exist. Since it seems like the Gundam Wing fandom is still alive and well on ff-net, here is an angsty oldey but a goody from 2005. I shipped 1x3 like no other, and emotionless Trowa was always my favorite interpretation of _Nanashi_ (rather than sweet and caring... sorry, but I just don't see that as much). I'll be posting more of my old GW fics throughout the week, so if you like this one, click on my profile for more. _~ Tsuki_

…

**The Meaning of Need**

…

"If a fir tree had a foot or two like a turtle, or a wing,  
do you think it would just wait for the saw to enter?"

**Rumi, ****Shambhala**

…

Quatre had once said that his favorite childhood memories were of sitting around the extensive dining room table at holidays, surrounded by his sisters, his father, and various aunts and uncles. Stories were told, incense was lit, and laughter filled each crevice and corner of the dining room. Heero was stunned that the blond boy could describe the peppery smell of the food, the sweet, complex taste of spiced tea with condensed milk, as if all of it had happened within the hour, and not half a lifetime ago.

What is it about sitting down for a meal with people you love that makes it so memorable? What is it about blood and food and spirit that bonds them inseparable?

Before this year, Heero couldn't really remember a single meal he had eaten.

"You _need_ to eat, soldier. You lost a lot of blood last night. You need to build your strength back up."

"We'll be landing soon." Heero snapped in response, "I'll eat… when I get back home."

The Preventers' doctor scowled, pushing his glasses up on his slightly too-round, bony nose. The overhead lights of the small jet reflected off the lenses like twin crescent moons. "I hope you know that a lesser man wouldn't be alive to have this discussion with me. You're strong, but you're also very lucky. But by not eating you're wasting _both_ of your advantages…"

Ice-cold eyes narrowed at the doctor, sea-blue irises swimming with a combination of annoyance and fatigue. Heero was not in a mood to be argued with. "I. Will. Eat. When. I. Get. Home."  
He added a look, which he had heard Duo refer to as his "death glare," and left the argument at that.

The doctor squinted behind his light-spotted glasses. "Hrmph. Fine…"

Anyone observing the young Gundam pilot, as the old doctor exited the sliding door, would have thought that nothing had changed about this young warrior since the Eve's Wars. His eyes blazed with the same warnings of violence, his mouth seemingly fixed in an eternal grimace. Even his tight, wiry muscles screamed of war and bloodshed, and hardly of the current propaganda of peace and security.

But it was moments like this that made Heero realize how much he truly _had_ changed.

The doctor was right, of course. Heero could feel his body breaking down, trying to repair itself after several serious injuries, little sleep, and no food. The voice of the soldier that lived in Heero's mind demanded provisions, at least a protein shake and a vitamin shot— this was a vital part of continuing the mission that Heero had set for himself.

Mission: to live.

But there was another side of Heero, something that barely existed before the Wars. Some part of him that listened to Quatre's stories, smiled at Duo's jokes, and enjoyed Wufei's philosophical debates. It was the side that he was ashamed of, at times— it made him a lesser soldier, made him vulnerable and weak.

But right now it was what truly drove him. It was that part of him that shunned food and medicine. It was that part of him that just wanted to be home.

Heero leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, feeling the humming of the jet beneath him as it swam through the atmosphere tubes placed between the newly built L7 and L1. It would take another few hours before they landed. May as well get some sleep.

He licked his lips as he rested his forehead against the cool, safety-glass window. His stomach was beginning to churn away at nothing, mixing up acids and fluids, devoid of sustenance. Heero smiled... and thought silently of balsamic vinegar and yellow saffron.

…

"That smells good."

Heero looked up as Trowa leaned over the kitchen counter. The banged boy lowered his sage-colored eyes, inspecting Heero's duplication of the recipe sent over by Quatre. The steam from the pot made the sandy-haired pilot look almost ghostly. So much so, that Heero blinked twice just to make sure his comrade was really even there.

"Hn. Thanks."

A batch of sweating dumplings sat over to Heero's side, surrounded by spiced saffron sauce. Trowa dipped the edge of the serving spoon into the sauce and, before Heero could threaten him— or at least protest— slipped the spoon into his mouth.

Heero scowled. "I'm going to have to wash that now."

"Hmm. That's good. Needs some salt, though."

"The recipe doesn't call for salt."

"It would taste better if you added some."

"It's not on the list."

"Hm?"

"It's _not_ being added."

Trowa bowed his head in surrender, letting his long bangs fall over his eyes like willow branches. The kitchen was silent once again, except for the tap-tap-tapping of Heero's mixing spoon.

"It's almost done," Heero finally whispered.

There seemed to be something sacrilegious about breaking the newly born silence, but Trowa didn't seem to mind, promptly hopping off the wooden stool that he had been occupying for the past half-hour. "I'll get some plates."

Heero waited until Trowa was an adequate seven feet away before adding, "Quatre asked about you today."

Another moment of silence passed.

"Really?"

"Yes."

More silence. Heavier this time.

Again, Trowa spoke first. "What did you say?"

"I told him I knew how to get in touch with you, and that I'd tell you that he wanted to talk."

"Hmm."

The heavy rhythm of porcelain being placed on wood became a conversation of its own, strong and cadenced. Heero waited until Trowa had finished setting the table to speak again.

"You should call him. He and Duo are both worried about you. You didn't tell anyone where you were going, after the circus folded."

"… No... I didn't." A silent _'Except you,'_ hung in the air.

But that wasn't entirely true either. Trowa _hadn't_ told Heero where he had gone. He just showed up at Heero's flat one day—lightly-stubbled cheeks dirt smudged, but still bright with healthy sheen, a daypack slung over his shoulder, hiking boots and ripped jeans water-stained from the past few days' rain—and asked if he could stay for awhile. Heero agreed. There was no discussion of where Trowa had come from, where he was going, or how long he was going to stay. That would just have to work itself out in time.

That was six weeks ago.

Heero sighed, clearing his throat as he set the steaming plate of yellow dumplings on the table.

"You should talk to him," he repeated. "Quatre's changed a lot since the war. He…"

The sharp, crow-like laughter was a shocking interruption, to say the least. Something about the severity of the sound made the hair on Heero's neck prick up in a wave of goose bumps. Trowa clapped his pale hand over his mouth, finally, stifling the amused eruption into a quieter trend of chuckles.

"Quatre hasn't changed, Heero. No one changes. Not really," Trowa exhaled noisily, smiling a cold, cynical smile. "Especially not us."

Heero raised one unkempt eyebrow, but Trowa chose not to elaborate. Instead he sat down and began to dish out the steaming dumplings out onto their plates.

…

"Agent Yuy? Are you all right? Can I get you anything?"

Heero rubbed his aching eyes and shook his head. The eager cadet frowned, shifting her flight bag around on her shoulder.

"We're going to be landing. Are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

"I'm fine."

Heero reached down and fished a water bottle and pack of vitamins out of his bag. He swallowed three in one gulp, chugging the entire container of water in a mere 1.5 seconds.

'_You're dehydrated too, Soldier_,' the voice stated flatly from inside the walls of his head, '_You need nourishment_.'

'_No…_'the other voice replied. '_You _need_ to see Trowa…_'

Heero's stomach panged, screaming either in hunger or in denial of the second statement. Heero growled to himself and closed his eyes as the plane dropped, beginning its descent.

…

The cucumber salad was surprisingly sweet and, much to Heero's relief, not a bit salty.

Heero would never admit to being even a halfway descent cook, but he could follow the simple, bullet-pointed instructions of a recipe. Trowa couldn't even bring himself to do that.

Trowa had learned to cook as a nomad, constantly on the move. Thus, every recipe he prepared was guaranteed to be packed full of preservatives, specifically sodium. Heero sometimes found himself wondering, in a hundred years, after everyone he knew was dead and gone, if Trowa's insides would subsist, conserved and saturated with gallons upon gallons of salt.

Heero didn't find the idea the least bit appealing. Not to mention there was sodium's effect on blood pressure and the body's metabolism. All in all, Heero would prefer that salt be left out of every meal, no matter how bland.

But the salad was rather good. Very good, actually.

Trowa scraped the side of his bowl with the edge of his fork— each metal, needle-like finger scratching out an off-tune C-sharp.

Heero sighed. Forks were one of the few items that seemed to simply develop out of thin air— objects and nuances around the apartment that became reminders of Trowa's continuing company.

A play by Samuel Beckett on the end table.

A fleece-lined, gray blanket thrown over the side of the couch.

A green, softball-sized, stone gargoyle perched on top of the bookshelf.

All things clearly reminiscent of Trowa, but nothing touching a true personality. After all, Trowa didn't believe in personalities any more than he believed in lasting peace.

How long had Trowa been living with him? It had to be over five months now, most of which was filled with traipsing silences or short, to-the-point conversations.

But it was… well… _nice_ having Trowa around. Heero had gotten used to his habits and schedules, his subtle jokes, the way he breathed. By now, it was almost hard to remember what it had been like to live alone— Heero wasn't even sure if he could do it again, he had gotten so used to having another body around.

Trowa cleared his throat, a dry, hacking sound that made Heero jump a fraction of an inch. He looked up to see a calculating look in those deep, green eyes. Trowa was planning something.

"How much weight do you think this table holds?" He asked. His voice was soft and candid. Heero frowned.

"About 186 kilograms."

Trowa nodded, making some sort of calculation in his head. "Ever had sex on a table, Heero?"

Heero shook his head, picking up another piece of cucumber with his chopsticks. He was used to this. He and Trowa had this kind of conversation often.

Trowa half-shrugged, "Seems like as good a night as any…"

"It's not practical," Heero objected flatly. "The clean up time would be at least twice as long, and I'm not about to deal with a food variable."

"Huh." Trowa shrugged, turning back to his salad.

Heero's mind hummed: '_This isn't normal, you know. Normal people don't have conversations like this. Normal people don't discuss sex like you're reading a textbook, like it's as tedious as science theorems. Normal people don't…_'

"Do you want to discuss this after we finish dinner?" Trowa asked, after taking a sip of soda water. Heero paused, then nodded.

They went back to eating in silence, as if everything truly _was_ 'normal.' But even Trowa couldn't suppress a soft chuckle when Heero finished his dinner, cleared the plates, and washed the dishes a whole seventeen minutes ahead of schedule.

"So…" Heero smirked. "What were we talking about again?"

…

Heero sucked on an ice cube furiously as he exited the government jet, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The anonymous black car that had been hired to pick him up from the transport station lay just beyond the runway.

He bumped his forehead while shuffling into the back seat, a red welt burning into the skin within seconds. Heero mentally tallied onto his list of injuries, wincing as most of his body screamed and trembled in monotonous pain.

'But the great thing about pain is that at least we remember we survived,' Duo used to laugh. Heero forced a small smile; he hadn't spoken to Duo in almost half-a-year, now. Not since the fight, and pizza.

Heero's stomach growled again. Shit, shouldn't have thought about pizza. Oh well. Just another reminder of survival. As long as you stay hungry, you know what you need…

…

Heero kneaded the powdery flour into the pizza dough, trying to ignore Duo's glare. Before today, if anyone had asked him, he would have said that there was less than a seven percent probability that Duo ever glared— it just didn't seem to be in him.

But Heero would have been wrong. Duo had been fixing the two men standing before him with a sharp, cold, silent glower for the past twenty minutes. It was starting to get a bit unnerving.

He had been afraid this would happen, but he had expected a little warning. No— leave it to Duo to track him down and show up at his apartment unannounced. No call beforehand. Just a "hey, buddy, thought I'd swing by! Surprise!"

Which wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for…

Trowa finished dicing the vegetables and set the bowl of sliced pizza toppings on the kitchen counter next to Heero. "Want a beer, Duo?"

"No."

Just no— not a 'No thanks, good buddy' or a drawling 'Naw, gotta keep my figure.' Nothing warm and eccentric like Duo usually articulated. Just no.

Trowa shrugged and dug a gold-tinted bottle out of the fridge for himself. There was no need to offer one to Heero, but he handed his roommate a cold water bottle just the same. Heero let his eyes linger on Trowa's slender hand as a silent thank you. The ex-mercenary nodded in understanding.

Duo shifted from foot to foot, his glare becoming more piercing by the second. Finally, Heero sighed.

"I need to get more tomatoes from the supermarket." He looked up to see Trowa signal an "okay," though he knew full well that there was still a full, fresh bag in the produce drawer. "Coming, Duo?"

Duo snorted and followed Heero out the door.

The cold outside bit through them like the jaws of a ferocious animal. Hiding a shiver, Heero whirled around to face his oldest friend. "Say it."

Duo sneered, waving his hand as if swatting a fly. "Fine… What the _fuck_! You've done some pretty shitty stuff over the years, Heero, but this… this just…"

"Trowa asked me not to tell you where he was. I respected his wishes."

"_His_ wishes? Goddamn, you _knew_ we were all worried about Trowa! You just sat around and listened to us ponder all the crap that could have happened to him, every organization that could have split him from tongue to toes, and here he was shacking up with you!"

"He wasn't… he _isn't_ 'shacking up' with me."

"I dunno. You two look pretty cozy to me. The way he moves around the kitchen, it looks like he's been there for _quite_ awhile, eh Heero?"

Heero half-shrugged. "Not too long."

"_How long_?"

"Eight months."

Duo's hands balled into fists, his teeth gritting into a solid white wall. "So you just went ahead and lied to our faces— to _my_ face— so you and Trowa could… what… play house?"

"I never lied." Heero said. "I never said he _wasn't_ living with me."

The harsh, joyless laugh practically echoed in the quiet night. "Heero… that… is… REALLY… fucked… up…" Duo shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shook his head. "You know, you were doing really well for awhile there. I really thought you were going to make it without the war and the fighting. I actually thought you could make friends, real friends not just war buddies. But Trowa…"

Heero frowned. "Living with Trowa has no affect on my ability to function in a warless society, Duo."

"The fuck it doesn't!" Duo laughed. "You want to learn to 'feel emotion' like a normal human being, Heero? That's what you said after the war, remember? Well, Trowa's not the person to learn with. That guy doesn't feel, Heero. You have to really _try_ to realize that you do, but Trowa just doesn't. He can put on a mask and fake it, though. That's what he does! He pretends! Haven't you ever talked to Quatre? He's… he can't be a real friend to you Heero. He can't! I mean…"

Duo cursed and kicked the pavement. His cheeks burnt a dark beige, flushing with anger.

"Don't think I don't know what it's like to pretend, Heero," Duo whispered after a few moments. "I did it all the time. I know what it looks like. What it fucking feels like. If you stay around him, you'll just get sucked in. You won't be able to feel, Heero. You'll turn back into that emotionless shell you were during the war, and I'll…" He paused, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "I don't want to be around that, Heero. Not when we're supposed to be able to live in peace. It's just too… too fucked up, I guess."

"You're wrong." Heero growled. Duo looked up, an eyebrow raised in mock challenge.

"You think so?"

"Yes. Trowa does feel. Very deeply. More than me."

"Huh… is that so…"

"I am learning, Duo. I am moving forward. I am following my emotions."

"Umm hmm…"

"I am." Heero insisted, eyes darkening to a color of deep, swirling navy. "If you were really my friend, Duo, you'd see that."

Duo's eyes burst open in shock and fury. "If I was…? Oh, FUCK YOU! You know what? You two deserve each other! You are completely oblivious, aren't you? Jesus fucking Christ!"

With that, Duo turned and stormed away, his auburn braid swinging from side to side behind him. Heero watched it like a pendulum, until Duo was out of sight.

"I made us some soup," Trowa called when Heero returned to the apartment.

"What happened to the pizza?"

"I put it in the fridge. I didn't want it, and I assume our guest has… departed."

"Yes."

"Hmmm." Trowa set two steaming bowls of vegetable soup on the table, deliberately not meeting eyes with Heero for a few moments.

"It's… okay."

Trowa just shrugged noncommittally, as if Heero had been commenting on the weather.

Heero stood silent for a moment, waiting. Finally, he grabbed Trowa's bony wrist and yanked him towards his chest for a deep kiss. Trowa smiled against him. The slender acrobat's mouth tasted warm, sweet, and thoroughly salty.

Heero moaned, knowing that he was really beginning to like that taste. Soon, he knew, he wouldn't be able to live without it. Yes… Duo was wrong. Being with Trowa wasn't cutting him off from his emotions. Damn it— it was making him feel _too much_.

…

The rumbling car was filled with a sickening, stuffy smell that caused Heero's empty stomach to clench with nausea. Rolling down the window didn't seem to help— all that did was start an instinctual list in Heero's brain of all the different angles an assassin could fire a lethal shot. Shifting into what his logic detailed as the "safest" angle when sitting by an open window, Heero's neck screamed in pain, causing the Perfect Soldier to wince. He felt around his pockets blindly for a pain pill, something he rarely took but kept for emergencies.

'_You're not supposed to take one on an empty stomach, soldier_,' Heero's mind reminded him. '_Eats away at stomach lining_,'

'_Fuck off_,' the rest of Heero retorted.

Heero frowned, patting empty pockets— then remembering that his pills had been confiscated by airport security on his previous trip. He _could_ have called Une then and there and gotten permission to carry the heavy dosage onto the jet, but that would have wasted time, and Heero prided himself on his efficiency.

'_Damn_.'

Searching again, Heero found something new— a small white pouch with gold lettering. Smiling, he ripped the pack open, dumping the contents into his water bottle. The smell of lilacs filled the back seat, reminding Heero of mornings at three a.m., when this smell would reach his nose from the kitchen, sweet and clear and warm.

…

Heero stood in the doorway without making a sound, just watching. The smell of hot water and flora weaved through the air of the apartment, tickling the back of Heero's throat.

Heero always knew when Trowa had had a bad dream. The smell was the clue.

While Trowa could always drink barrels and barrels of caffeinated sludge and still fall asleep on command, Heero had to make a rule that coffee could never be brewed before six in the morning, simply because just the smell was enough to keep Heero up for hours.

The lilac tea had materialized in the pantry just days after the rule was made. Trowa had to drink something warm before sunrise, when memories and dreams plagued him like a curse. Trowa never told Heero the contents of his dreams— never revealed what made him gasp into his pillow, what made his face twist into a mask of pain and anguish. But then, Heero never asked.

It may have had something to do with the mercenaries. Or the war. Or that strange period of limbo when no one knew where Trowa had gone.

Now, Trowa stood in the kitchen, the dim light reflecting across his tense muscles like waves. His jeans were slung low on his hips, the curve of his back faintly spotted with the freckles that Heero knew by heart, by sight, by taste.

Heero knew what would happen the moment he made his presence known—

He would sit down with Trowa and pretend to sip tea for a few moments. Trowa would stare off at a blank spot behind Heero, and not say a word.

Then, as if a switch was flipped, Trowa would stand up and grab Heero roughly by the shoulders, kissing him fiercely and tugging roughly at his thin sweatpants. And Heero wouldn't protest— certainly didn't want to—but a part of him knew that Trowa's lust came out of the darkness of his nightmare. That Trowa gasped and begged and moaned because of the dream and not the Japanese pilot standing before him.

But Heero also couldn't bring himself to stay in bed, to pretend he didn't hear Trowa's quiet steps and shallow breath, or smell the sweet, mournful lilac.

He cared too much.

So, standing in the doorway, Heero shifted his feet and forced a cough. The sound was almost thunderous in the silent apartment. Trowa nodded minutely, and poured another cup of tea.

…

The car went over a jagged pothole, causing Heero to jerk a bit in the back seat, spilling a splash of his cold tea on his already bloodstained flight pants. He looked out the window and saw that he was only about five minutes from home.

From Trowa.

He watched familiar shops and cafés dash by— a video rental store, a small food market, a coffee shop, a Thai eatery...

Seeing the restaurant, Heero couldn't help but smile a small, bitter smile. He and Trowa ordered from there all the time when one or both of them was too tired to cook. The last time they ordered out was such a calm, casual night.

God, was it really only two weeks ago? The last 127 hours of bullets and blood and explosions seemed like a lifetime.

But then again, maybe it was. With a clench in his chest, Heero knew that the Perfect Soldier had almost died about ten times since that last night. Maybe he was nothing but a shell now.

On the other hand, it could be exactly the opposite.

…

"I am never letting you pick the movie again," Trowa muttered around a mouthful of red curry.

Heero glared, poking at his meal with his chopsticks. "Hn. It's not very realistic, but it's a good story."

Trowa snorted, throwing his bangs back, away from his face, so he could look at Heero. "It's melodramatic dribble. The plot of the movie should be about the fight, not the characters' relationships."

Heero just rolled his eyes (a habit he had picked up from Duo and still had not been able to let go) and modified his position on the couch. The worn piece of furniture was barely bigger than a loveseat—just large enough for both boys to lounge, but only if they had no problems with continuously brushing legs and wandering arms. And Heero had no problem with it at all.

On the small television screen in front of them, a soldier froze in his mobile suit, sobbing and sniffling over the memory of his dead fiancée.

"Fuck," Trowa muttered finally, switching the vid-disk off with the small remote. "I can't take this anymore."

"He's allowed to be upset. He's only human," Heero sighed. He slipped the remote out of the ex-mercenary's hand and keyed on the nightly news. At least with that Trowa couldn't complain about realism.

"No, he's a badly written character. I mean, _you_ wouldn't do that, right?" Trowa sighed. Heero looked up, one eyebrow raised, waiting. "Cry for someone in the middle of a battle. You wouldn't do that."

Heero frowned and flicked the television off. "No, I wouldn't. But…"

"Of course you wouldn't. And you wouldn't cry afterward. Not for _anyone_, would you?" Trowa smiled, his green eyes glazed dark.

Heero stayed silent.

Trowa nodded sagely. "That's what I like about you, Heero." Trowa sighed, his eyes drooping in a strangely calm manner. He looked almost peaceful. "Most people aren't so wonderfully heartless."

Heero paused, staring at the now blank television screen and poking at a scrap of carrot with his chopsticks. "Would you?"

"Hmm?"

"Would _you_ cry…?"

Trowa smiled an enigmatic smile and ruffled his friend's hair. "Think before you speak, Heero."

Frowning slightly, Heero stood up and began to clean up the mess from the take-out.

…

Home.

Heero barely heard the car drive away or the flutter of raindrops beginning to fall. His eyes were glued on the faintly lit apartment window, where he knew Trowa stood, chopping vegetables or toasting bread.

By now, Wufei or Sally Po would have called and told Trowa of Heero's refusal to eat. He would be waiting upstairs, listening patiently for the rhythmic sound of his footsteps. Heero could see the scene as well as if he were standing in the room with Trowa, waiting with him in silence and fixing dinner.

The apartment house's stairs never seemed so strenuous or steep— Heero's face was flushed red halfway through the trek, the back of his neck hot and sweating, his new stitches straining. He had to lean against the doorjamb as he turned his key in the lock. God, he felt so close to collapsing from exhaustion.

"Wufei told me to make you eat."

Heero winced at the first words out of his lover's mouth. "I know," he responded. Trowa nodded toward the blender on the table edge.

"There's a protein shake, and I'm making some wheat-relish for you."

Heero snorted, giving a half-nod. Wheat-relish was something Trowa had invented while traveling from battle scene to battle scene. It was made from a myriad of vegetables, fruits, and high-calorie wheat grains and grit—and it tasted awful, like oatmeal that had grown a strange concoction of molds. But it was a great way to recoup after not eating for a few days.

Heero gulped down two glasses of the thick shake without even taking the time to taste it, before he turned to look at Trowa again. His lover looked… nice. Plain turtleneck and conservative jeans, his usual ensemble. His hair looked the same as it always did. So did the curve of his face, his eyes, his skin. Yet, just watching Trowa chop vegetables and stand there silently, breathing, was enough to send a pain through Heero's heart so sharp that he thought he would die, right then and there. He was so, so beautiful.

"The mission was difficult," Heero whispered. He saw Trowa raise his eyebrow minutely before nodding. He knew what Heero meant.

"Difficult" for Heero meant risky. Difficult meant death.

"How many officers did you lose?" Trowa asked— his voice was still flat and unwavering. Heero shook his head.

"I haven't gotten the official report, but I think six or seven." '_And one was almost me…_' his mind filled in.

"Hmm. I'm sorry."

Heero just shrugged in response, staring at Trowa's profile. It was maddening, this moment. He never felt more at home than being here, at home with Trowa, but now there was this secret balled up inside him— this secret that he had kept even from himself for so long. Maybe it took almost dying in this time of peace to make him realize what he'd be losing. Heero's heart pounded in his chest and his crystal-blue eyes watered.

"Trowa?"

"Hmm?"

Heero set down his protein-shake and walked next to his companion. He was so close now that he could see the hairs on the back of Trowa's neck curl with every breath Heero took. So close— "I…"

It was scary, knowing this so well. He had spent all of his life not feeling, not knowing what he felt. But he had changed so much since the war. He had changed because of Trowa. Duo had been wrong after all— Trowa had pushed him beyond the lie. Heero now knew that he could feel, because right now every emotion he could possibly fathom was balled up in his stomach. Emotions he had barely realized existed and certainly never voiced. But it just felt so important now, to let Trowa know.

"Trowa, I… I think I…" '_Say it! Say it, Soldier!_' "Trowa, I lo—"

The back of Heero's head hit the kitchen cabinet with an audible 'Thwack,' sending shudders down his spine and bells ringing in his head. The large chopping knife that Trowa had been using to cut up vegetables was now pressed against the tender arch of Heero's throat.

"Listen," Trowa stated coldly, his voice only slightly harder than his usual, emotionless monotone. "I'm only going to say this once."

Heero gaped, knowing full well that he looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and openmouthed like a land-stranded fish. But he was too busy trying to reason out what was happening. The soldier in his blood was screaming to fight back, to break Trowa's arm before he could inflict a fatal cut. But Trowa…

"Wipe that dumb look off of your face, Heero," Trowa said. "It really, really doesn't suit you." Heero did as instructed, his eyes narrowing into angry slits as Trowa pressed the cold, sharp metal against his Adam's apple. "Now, acknowledging that you are exhausted and starving, I'm not going to walk out this door right now. But— and I stress this, Heero— if you _ever_ try and say that to me again, near-death experience or not, I will leave you. Is that clear? Do you understand? Heero?"

Heero's eyes had completely shut now, his head wavering dangerously close to the kitchen knife. Silence. At long last, he raised clear, dry eyes to Trowa and smiled a cold, thin smile.

"Yes. I understand."

Trowa let out a shaky sigh, his coldness morphing into a strangely relieved smile as he pulled the knife back. A thin trail of blood oozed from Heero's neck, a new cut to add to his tally of injuries. Trowa turned and rinsed the knife off in the sink before scraping the sliced vegetables into the grainy wheat mixture.

Heero sat down at the table with Trowa, the silence between them so thick it was tangible.

"It _is_ nice to have you back in one piece, Heero," Trowa affirmed. Heero nodded. He knew that tomorrow he would have to log his paperwork, would have to log the operating expense and the death total. He would have to officially state himself as a mission survivor.

But he also knew that Duo had been right after all... He knew that the man that the Perfect Soldier had grown into in peace time, the young man named Heero Yuy, had not survived the mission at all. He had died just as surely as if Trowa had shot him. There was nothing left. There couldn't be. Feelings hurt the Soldier too much. Hurt both soldiers, really.

In one last display of humanity, Heero Yuy swallowed invisible tears before burying his emotions away for good. Then, the Soldier picked up his spoon, nodded at Trowa, and began to eat.

…

**END**


End file.
